Disassociating in Central Park
By Alessandra DeAngelis
In terms of comfort,
It was just shy of “brisk” spring,
And I had goosebumps.
But it didn’t matter,
Not really, since the sun
Was a cascade
That trickled through tree
Branches; soaking through clothes and
Going up noses.
I let it fill me,
Clogging the back of my throat
Like cotton, bad news.
White light traveling,
Bursting my veins, splitting through
Bone, sinew, and skin,
Until there’s nothing.
No corpse, ash, or fine vapor,
Just absence of what was.